I Can Hear the Mermaids
by spikesvamp79
Summary: Sherlolly post The Fall. Molly accompanies Sherlock as they go into hiding. It's a bit melodramatic and poetic and may not make sense... Enjoy! and thanks for reading! M for a bit of sexy times at the end.


I Can Hear the Mermaids

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock." I do own all mistakes.

It was surprisingly simple to kill Sherlock Holmes. A ball under the armpit to stop the pulse, a bag of blood that had been drawn earlier in the day, and a linen truck had been the materials needed in order to do so. Though John Watson had rushed to his side, it was only seconds later that several of Mycroft's men masquerading as orderlies had wheeled the body back inside to the morgue. From there, Sherlock had been hastily cleaned up and together with Molly Hooper, ushered into one of Mycroft's black cars and been driven to a safe house.

Molly realised just how little time had passed since they had pulled the whole thing off as she waited to find out what some more permanent arrangements were. She had thought that she would be dropped off at her apartment, but when she had been about to tell the driver to turn towards it, Sherlock had simply looked at her and shook his head. They had pulled up to the alleyway behind the building and entered through the back stairs. One of the men had unlocked the flat and ushered them in after doing a brief security sweep of it. They had then left the couple inside with strict instructions to stay away from the windows and not to leave the flat under any circumstance.

The whistle of the kettle pulled Molly from her thoughts, and she began to make up a tea tray. After finding all the necessary things, she carried the tray into the living area where Sherlock sat on the couch. It appeared as though he was in his mind palace, but when she poured tea for him, he accepted the cup and began to drink. Molly poured a cup for herself and sat back. "So where do we go from here?" she asked, sipping the tea and enjoying the warmth that only it could provide.

Sherlock was pensive for a moment. Then he sighed and spoke. "I have no leads. Though Moriarty certainly died on the roof, he made it clear that there was much more than just him. This is no longer a matter of detection but of national security. That's why I had to bring Mycroft into it all."

Molly sighed. "Is he coming here?" she inquired, slightly dreading interacting with the elder Holmes who held such disregard for both her and her sentimentality. She had long had the sneaking suspicion that if it weren't for the influence of Mycroft that Sherlock might be a bit more sentimental or at least more comfortable around those who were.

"Yes, he'll brief us on the situation and advise us on our next move," he answered.

She nodded. "Okay, okay. Wait, Sherlock, what do you mean us? How am I involved in any of this? I'm just a pathologist, not a detective or a government agent or anything important," she exclaimed.

He turned to her and set down his tea. "Molly, when I told you that you counted, did you not believe me? What evidence have I given to suggest that in this entire affair that you do not count?" he remarked, looking at her directly.

"I just, well, I mean, I just was the one who dealt with the morgue and stuff. You don't need me now," she stammered.

"That's not true," he quickly replied, but before Molly could figure out what he meant, the door opened and Mycroft Holmes walked in, followed by a well-dressed young woman who was on her phone and a young man in very tight black clothes who carried a square tote bag that seemed rather full.

"Ahh, Sherlock, Miss Hopper— "

"It's Doctor Hooper," Sherlock interrupted and corrected his elder brother.

"Right, my apologies," he spoke. "I've begun sending out several agents to begin cleaning up Moriarty's mess and his network; however, Sherlock, you are to have as minimal involvement as possible. You and _Dr._ Hooper will be put into protective custody until this whole mess can be cleared up. Here are your new identities and papers. This is Emmanuel and he will be taking care of working to change your appearance. Once you are done, you will be changing into the clothes to match your new identities and you will go to the relocation assignment and stay there until this affair has been dealt with. Any questions?" Mycroft finished and looked up at a two with the smile that seemed rather uncomfortable on his face.

Molly looked up from her perusal of her new identity. "Wait, why am I involved in all of this? Can't I just go back to my house and job?" she asked, looking between the two men.

"Molly, you are more involved than you know. Not only did you help my fake my death but you also dated Moriarty. He was in your house; he knows where you live. Who knows what information he has gathered on you. To allow you to go back to your 'regular' life would be extremely dangerous. Not to mention that to your family and to the rest of your acquaintances, you've already said that you're going on an extended holiday to grieve and sort out things. At least that's what the email that went out to them said," Sherlock informed her. Molly gazed up at him dejectedly.

"Well, what about Toby?" she inquired.

"Oh, I've got that one. Don't worry a thing about him," the young woman spoke up.

"Well, alright, I suppose," she sighed.

"Excellent," Mycroft beamed. "Emmanuel, why don't you take Dr. Hooper into the en-suite and begin working on her?" The young man nodded and Molly followed him back to the bathroom to change into a new person.

Just as she was about to shut the door to give Sherlock and Mycroft the privacy to talk about things that she either wouldn't understand or be able to help with, she saw Sherlock walk back towards them. He opened the door up and went directly to Emmanuel. "If you chop off her hair, you will never work in England ever again, do I make myself clear," he growled at the poor man.

"Yes, yes, of course sir. I will only give it a trim at best, I swear," he stuttered out, clearly afraid of the angry man.

"Good," Sherlock said stonily, turning quickly and leaving them to it.

"Ladies and gentlemen on flight 847, we will be landing in Atlanta in approximately fifteen minutes. Please secure your seatbelts and prepare for landing." The voice of the PA system woke Molly from her slumber. After having her hair highlighted so that she could almost pass as a blonde and then waiting for Sherlock's transformation, the two had been rushed to Heathrow to catch their flight. Luckily, Emmanuel's shearing of Sherlock's curls and subsequent bleaching had taken away most of Sherlock's trademark look. When Molly had seen the look, she silently wished that she could have gone in and threatened Emmanuel not to chop off all of Sherlock's hair, but alas, the deed was already done.

Along with the blonde, Sherlock had also left behind his suit for a pair of snug jeans and t-shirt. Instead of his gorgeous Bell Staff coat, he now wore a worn leather jacket. Molly had been put into a pair of jeans which were clearly designer because they fit like a glove. She had worn a black sweater and been adorned with lots of jewelry by Mycroft's secretary. When she had protested that all of the jewelry really wasn't her style, the woman simply scoffed and said that while Molly Hooper may not wear much jewelry or put on much makeup (which was still to come), Jennifer Carlson certainly did.

When Sherlock had seen the frankly garish change that had come over Molly, he immediately began to take off three of the four necklaces that Anthea had put on her. He left a silver locket and the pair of silver hoops, but to them he added a set of wedding rings. They were silver and it was clear that the diamonds were quite real. Molly had tried to protest, but Sherlock had simply sent her to the bathroom to take off at least most of the makeup.

The flight had been fine and both had fallen asleep rather quickly. Luckily for them, Mycroft had ensured that they were in the business class and not subjected to the rather abysmally small seats that coach had to offer. Sometime during the flight, Molly's head had found its way onto Sherlock's shoulder and had remained there for the duration. As she woke up, she realised that Sherlock's arm was draped around her and that it was not at all unpleasant. She reluctantly pulled away from him and made sure that they still had their bags and would be ready to leave as soon as they landed. Mycroft had emphasized that the sooner they were away from CCTV cameras, the better.

As the steward came by and politely reminded them to pull their seats to the upright position, Molly tried to shake Sherlock awake as she couldn't reach his button. "Sherlock," she whispered, knowing that they were not supposed to use their own names anymore but also knowing that there was no way he would respond to being called "Mike." "Sherlock," she said again, shaking him a bit more violently when he started and woke up. "We're about to land," she informed him.

"Right, sorry Jenn darling," he mumbled, still coming out of sleep. The moment he said her new name, Molly felt her heart clench. She would be lying if she were to say that she had never dreamed about Sherlock calling her darling, but it was always Molly darling. She shook her head and reminded herself that this was only temporary and that Sherlock would never call her Molly darling. She might as well enjoy being Jennifer Carlson, wife to Michael Carlson, residents of NoWheresVille, Georgia, USA.

They had successfully made it out of the airport and found the car waiting for them. Sherlock drove them out of the city, using his phone as navigation to a small town. Molly was far too lost in her own thoughts to try and figure out where they were. Unfortunately, her geography skills were rather lacking and she knew next to nothing about Georgia, but a common theme soon became clear to her. Peaches. There were peaches on everything. What the hell was with all the damn peaches?

"It's one of the world's leading producers of peaches," Sherlock answered her, as she realised that she must have asked that question out loud.

"Oh. I don't remember the last time I ate a peach," Molly said, rather absentmindedly.

"Neither do I, to be honest," Sherlock replied and looked over to her. "Are you alright Molly?" he asked.

She put on the smile that she wore when she didn't know what else to do with her face. "Of course I am. Just jetlagged is all," she replied automatically. Sherlock simply nodded.

"This is temporary. I promise you. We will go back to London. I will go back to solving cases, and you will go back to Barts and the lab," he said, looking straight ahead at the road.

"Thank you," she whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek.

The house was a small, white farmhouse, surrounded by peach trees as it were. There were also beehives at the rear of the property. Both of them had been given a decent closet of basic clothes as well as plenty of spending money for more. The fridge was stocked with basics and instructions to the local grocery store had been placed there. The house was air conditioned and had internet, but it was one of the very few houses in the area that did. The reason that this had been chosen as their relocation spot was because of how little technology the town had. They would not be videotaped going anywhere as long as they stayed in the area, and that was what they intended to do.

As Molly explored the small house, she found a window seat that was framed by built in book shelves. It overlooked the rear of the house and the beehives were just visible from the location. She smiled knowing that she would be spending quite a bit of time in that spot. As Sherlock was getting the last of their belongings from the car, Molly ventured into the bedroom and saw the queen sized bed. Well that was going to be a fun bridge to cross. She sighed and walked back to the kitchen. There was a window over the sink that looked out onto a field of something. She couldn't quite tell from this angle what crop was growing.

While she was staring out the window, Sherlock came to stand next to her. "Do you know anything about bee keeping?" Molly asked.

"Yes, quite a bit actually. I've never attempted it but always been fascinated by it," he answered her.

"Oh good. Did you see the hives at the back of the property?"

"No, I didn't realise it had them. Mycroft really does think of everything."

"What do you mean?"

"He knew that unless I had something to occupy my mind that I might become destructive, but with the hives, I'll have something to do every day." Molly nodded. She had heard horror stories from John about just how destructive Sherlock could be when he was bored, so the bee keeping might actually work at keeping them both sane.

So it was that they fell into a routine. Every morning the couple would rise and eat breakfast together while reading the morning paper. Then Sherlock would don his bee keeping clothes and go out to check the hives. Molly would drive to town to pick up groceries and come back in time to make the two of them lunch. In the afternoon, she would move to the front porch or to her window seat if it was too hot outside and read. Sometimes Sherlock would go out to the hives to check on experiments or on productivity, but more often than not, he would end up reading next to her. Then Molly would make dinner, sometimes getting Sherlock to help her. They would eat and then retire to the sitting room to watch telly or read. Sometimes they would go for walks and watch the sun set over a cornfield. Sometimes Molly would assist Sherlock in bee experimentation. Sometimes the two would simple sit on the front porch and bask in the Georgia warmth. One time, Sherlock took Molly into town for dinner, but that had garnered far too much interest from the locals, so they resolved to keep to themselves simply for safety.

Thus one afternoon, Molly found herself making a peach cobbler out of the peaches from their very own trees. As she began peeling them, she muttered to herself the lines from a poem. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table and working on documenting his latest findings from his bees. "What did you say?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Nothing love, just something from a lifetime ago," she spoke.

Sherlock started. Since when did Molly call him love? Since when did it give him a feeling of warmth that the Georgia sun held no comparison to? "No, what did you say?" he pressed, wanting to know what she was talking about.

"Do I dare? Do I dare to eat a peach?" she said, looking out at the window.

"Ahh. Prufrock," Sherlock responded. Suddenly everything was too much. He missed London. He missed the London that Molly's words brought to mind. He felt the loneliness that had pervaded him. He sat down his work and went over to where Molly held the peach poised about the sink. The paring knife was in her other hand. There was a part of him that would love to see this as a painting. The other part of him felt the need to connect with the only other person who knew who he was.

Sherlock took the knife and peach and set them down. Molly looked at him with a look of curiosity in her eye. He reached out and pulled the hand covered in peach juice towards him. Without warning, he began to lick her hand until there was not a drop of juice left. When it was clean, he looked her in the eye. "If you don't want this, tell me now," he demanded.

"Oh, no, I want it. God, do I want it," Molly replied. Sherlock smiled and bent down to capture her lips. Molly could still taste the peach as his tongue delved into her mouth. They were tender at first, exploring and trying to figure each other out. But soon their lust began to consume them and their kissed turned much more passionate. Both moved away from each other's mouth and began to explore the jawline and the neck.

Sherlock's hands roamed from her shoulders, down her sides, and onto her hips. Molly's hands went into his hair and began to twist in and amongst his growing curls. Suddenly, he lifted her up on to the counter and began to grind his quickly hardening member against her core. She moaned as every pent up feeling of lust was brought to the open. Shifting once again, Sherlock put her legs around him and carried her to the bedroom. Laying her on the bed, he quickly began to work at taking off her sundress, which he realised was probably one of the best garments ever invented. Sherlock kissed his way down her body, pausing at her breasts to pay attention to each one in kind. Though he fumbled with removing her bra and she ended up doing it for him, his hand expertly caressed each mound, making her make the most delicious noises.

As he removed her soaked panties, he bent down to kiss her core, but she stopped him. "Later yes, but right now, I need you inside of me. Now," she demanded, pulling him back up to her and kissing him deeply. She reached for his button and made quick work of his pants.

"Are you sure Molly," he asked, looking down at her. He was poised at her entrance, desperate for her, but he did not want to do anything she wouldn't want.

"Absolutely," she beamed. That was all it took for him to sink into her. Molly let out a loud gasp. Never before had she felt so full. So complete. He began to move gently, getting used to the delicious feeling of Molly beneath him. The two found their rhythm and were reveling in the new level of intimacy. There was something so wonderful in the feeling of coming together for the couple. They had been so isolated that this was far more than sex. This was a rejoining of souls. Before either were ready, their climaxes approached. With shouts and moans to deities and each other, the two came.

They laid on the bed for some time, gently holding and stroking each other. Both had dozed off in the afternoon sun when the chirp of Sherlock's phone broke the peace. Sherlock looked at her quizzically as he reached to answer it. "Hello," he answered, laying back in Molly's arms. "I see. Yes, we'll be ready. Thank you," he said, hanging up.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's over. The last member of Moriarty's web was taken down today. We can go back. Mycroft is arranging our flight," he said quietly.

"I don't want to leave," Molly mumbled. Sherlock looked at her, frowning. "Well, I mean, yes I want to leave Georgia and the whole not being who we really are thing, but another part of me doesn't want to lose this."

"Who says that we will?" Sherlock asked.

"Won't it be back to life as usual? You'll solve cases, I'll work in the lab and morgue and provide you with body parts."

"Well, yes, but then you'll come home to 221B, make dinner, we'll read or watch telly or go for a walk, then we'll go to bed and have sex and sleep and do it all over the next day. You're a fool if you think I'm letting go of you for one second Molly Hooper," he declared, maintaining eye contact with her has he made his intentions know. "That is, if you'll have me," he muttered.

"Oh Sherlock, of course I will," she said, smiling up at him. "We have lingered in the changers of the sea by sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown till human voices wake us, and we drown."


End file.
